The Children's Book - A. S. Byatt [172]
“This should buy some shoes for you. When I come back, I shall expect to see you striding about comfortably, and going on long walks.” He hesitated. He wanted to say that he would come with her, to choose the shoes. He was rearranging in his mind the little luxuries he would forfeit for the shoes and a magnanimous glow filled him at the thought of the fine toes wriggling comfortably in new leather. But there was something intimate, something improper, about going to a shoe shop with this young woman. Either he behaved as though she was—was a kind of vassal, of whom he was lord and master, or he behaved like an almost-lover, making gifts, which might expect a return. He said, a little stiffly,
“I do know how much more you do for my family than you need, or they—we—really appreciate. I do know.”
Elsie smiled ruefully. She would have liked someone to be with her, on her momentous shoe-shop visit. Maybe she should wait for Philip. But her feet were killing her.
Geraint went back to Vetchey Manor in the dog cart, and in a day or two Elsie walked across the Marsh, and up the hill into Rye. There were two or three boot and shoe shops, in the window of one of which—Jas. Plaskett, estd. 1872—was the red leather belt with the arrow clasp. Elsie stood on the cobbles, staring into the window, calculating. She did not want her first pair of shoes to be workingwomen’s clodhopping boots and she knew, with fatal realism, that if she bought herself any shoes remotely shapely, or almost dressy, she wouldn’t ever be able to bring herself to wear them, for what she needed, trotting across the yard, running up and down stairs, walking into Lydd. She should buy something sensible, which, if assiduously scraped and polished, would look acceptable below her plain skirt, when she got it. She hoped for a moment that Geraint might have given her enough to buy both shoes and the red belt. She calculated. As long as she didn’t go into the shop, she could imagine owning the belt.
“I have been wondering what you are dreaming about,” said a pleasant voice behind her. Elsie jumped. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” said Herbert Methley. “I’ve been watching you thinking for maybe twenty minutes, and I couldn’t resist, in the end, asking about what you are thinking and frowning and murmuring to yourself. You don’t have to answer, I know I’m impertinent.”
Elsie laughed. “Shoes. I’m thinking about shoes. For the first time in my life I’m buying new shoes, for me. I can’t make up my mind. I don’t know how to decide.”
“And as long as you don’t decide, all the shoes are yours to think about,” said the writer.
“Yes, and the smart red belt with the arrow there. I could just about manage the belt if I bought cheaper boots—but I don’t need the belt, I need shoes that don’t hurt.”
“This is indeed a momentous decision. I am a storyteller, you know, and I do need to know how it will come out. I think you must try on the shoes—as many as you can, so that you may see your feet in every possible light and every possible form. You will certainly find that some of the shoes that look good in the window, that promise comfort and prettiness, will turn out to be deceivers, will pinch your heel or hurt your great toe. And others, that look like nothing much sitting there on the stand, will turn out to feel like gloves that were made specially with your feet and your elegant ankles in mind. In an ideal world you would be buying walking shoes, and dancing shoes, and everyday housework shoes, but you need to find one pair that can be all these at once, I assume, and that isn’t easy. I hope you will let me help you. I do have a good eye for women’s feet, I have always been told. I really want to know how this tale will come out—”
So they went into the dark, leather-scented shop, and Elsie sat on an